ILLNESS AND LAST YEARS.
Reference must now be made, however reluctantly, to the sad illness with
which Miss Wordsworth was more or less afflicted for over twenty years.
At this distance of time particulars as to the commencement and progress
of this affliction are not easily procurable. It appears, however, to
have been about the year 1826 that her splendid physical energies began
to show signs of decay. In October of that year Mr. Crabb Robinson,
after mentioning a visit to Southey at Keswick, wrote in his diary:
"Miss D. Wordsworth's illness prevented me going to Rydal Mount." From
this illness it is, however, evident she successfully rallied. I am
indebted to _Notes and Queries_ for the following extract from a letter
by Miss Dora Wordsworth, dated 1st February, 1827: "Aunt Wordsworth has
not yet walked herself to death, which I often tell her she will do,
though she still continues the same tremendous pedestrian." Here we have
the key to the cause of her subsequent prostration. From her ardent and
impassioned nature her career had been what may be termed singularly
intense. De Quincey, who knew her well, speaks of there being clearly
observable in her "a self-consuming style of thought." Both as regards
her mental and physical nature, she appears to have run a race with
time. As her brother's companion, she had indeed been so exclusively and
passionately devoted to him as to identify herself not only with his
mental pursuits, but also, probably more than wisely, with his long
pedestrian and mountain rambles. If it were not that the great work of
her life was so signally achieved, and her satisfaction therein
abundant, we should be inclined to regret that she thus drew an
over-draft on the fountains of her life. It could not be expected that
her frailer frame could sustain, without any mischievous effects, the
physical fatigues and labours of her more robust brother; for with him
she was ever ready to explore the mountain force, to climb the rocky
heights, or walk over moor and fell apparently almost regardless of
distance. Within due limits, no doubt all this is as healthful as it is
delightful. But Nature's powers are limited; and Nature in Miss
Wordsworth eventually gave way. And her spirits suffered in sympathy
with her physical nature.
As an illustration of Miss Wordsworth's home rambles and adventures, I
may here mention a reminiscence which is given by Mr. Justice Coleridge,
of an excursion made with Wordsworth into Easedale. The poet, pointing
to a precipitous and rocky mountain above the tarn, told of an incident
which befell him and his sister on one occasion on their coming over the
mountains from Langdale. From some cause they had become a little
parted, when a heavy fog came on and Miss Wordsworth became bewildered.
After wandering about for some time she sat down and waited. When the
fog cleared away and she could see the valley before her, she found
that she had stopped very providentially, as she was standing almost on
the verge of the precipice.
It is not, however, to be supposed that Miss Wordsworth accompanied her
brother over the 200,000 miles which De Quincey calculated the poet must
have walked, nor is it stated by what means the figures are arrived at!
A twenty or thirty miles walk was not an uncommon thing. As an instance,
I find it stated that one summer afternoon, as the Keswick coach was
approaching Grasmere, it met Wordsworth, and stopped. A lady, who was
going on a visit to the poet, put out her head to speak to him,
whereupon he said to her: "How d'ye do? Mrs. Wordsworth will be
delighted to see you. I shall be back in the evening. I'm only going to
tea with Southey," who, it will be remembered, lived at a distance of
about fifteen miles, and the road by no means a good one.
It is stated by Principal Shairp, in the introduction to the "Tour in
Scotland," that in the year 1829 Miss Wordsworth "was seized with a
severe illness, which so prostrated her, body and mind, that she never
recovered from it." This can, however, hardly be the fact, as is
evidenced by the following letter to Mr. Crabb Robinson, which certainly
shows no indication of mental prostration, and contains no allusion to a
physical one:--
"_FRIDAY, December 1st, 1831._
"Had a rumour of your arrival in England reached us before your
letter of yesterday's post you would ere this have received a
welcome from me, in the name of each member of this family; and,
further, would have been reminded of your promise to come to Rydal
as soon as possible after again setting foot on English ground.
When Dora heard of your return, and of my intention to write, she
exclaimed after a charge that I would recall to your mind your
written promise: 'He must come and spend Christmas with us. I wish
he would!' Thus you see, notwithstanding your petty jarrings, Dora
was always, and now is, a loving friend of yours. I am sure I need
not add that if you can come at the time mentioned, so much the
more agreeable to us all, for it is fast approaching; but that
_whenever_ it suits you (for you may have Christmas engagements
with your own family) to travel so far northward, we shall be
rejoiced to see you; and whatever other visitors we may chance to
have, we shall always be able to find a corner for you. We are
thankful that you are returned with health unimpaired--I may say,
indeed, amended--for you were not perfectly well when you left
England. You do not mention rheumatic pains, so I trust they have
entirely left you. As to your being grown older--if you mean
_feebler_ in mind--my brother says, 'No such thing; your judgment
has only attained autumnal ripeness.' Indeed, my dear friend, I
wonder not at your alarms, or those of any good man, whatever may
have been his politics from youth to middle age, and onward to the
decline of life. But I will not enter upon this sad and perplexing
subject. I find it much more easy to look with patience on the
approach of pestilence, or any affliction which it may please God
to cast upon us without the intervention of man, than on the
dreadful results of sudden and rash changes, whether arising from
ambition, or ignorance, or brute force. I am, however, getting
into the subject without intending it, so will conclude with a
prayer that God may enlighten the heads and hearts of our men of
power, whether Whigs or Tories, and that the madness of the
deluded people may settle. This last effect can only be produced,
I fear, by exactly and severely executing the law, seeking out and
punishing the guilty, and letting all persons see that we do not
_willingly_ oppress the poor. One possible blessing seems already
to be coming upon us through the alarm of the cholera. Every rich
man is now obliged to look into the bye-lanes and corners
inhabited by the poor, and many crying abuses are (even in our
little town of Ambleside) about to be remedied.
"But to return to pleasant Rydal Mount, still cheerful and
peaceful--if it were not for the newspapers we should know nothing
of the turbulence of our great towns and cities; yet my poor
brother is often heart-sick and almost desponding--and no wonder,
for, until this point at which we are arrived, he has been a true
prophet as to the course of events, dating from the 'Great Days of
July' and the appearance of 'the Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing
but the Bill.' It remains for us to hope that now Parliament may
meet in a different temper from that in which they parted, and
that the late dreadful events may make each man seek only to
promote the peace and prosperity of the country. You will see that
my brother looks older. He is certainly thinner, and has lost some
of his teeth; but his bodily activity is not at all diminished,
and if it were not for public affairs, his spirits would be as
cheerful as ever. He and Dora visited Sir Walter Scott just before
his departure, and made a little tour in the Western Highlands;
and such was his leaning to old pedestrian habits, that he often
walked from fifteen to twenty miles in a day, following or keeping
by the side of the little carriage, of which his daughter was the
charioteer. They both very much enjoyed the tour, and my brother
actually brought home a set of poems, the product of that
journey...."
It was not, however, long after the date of this letter, which shows
that Miss Wordsworth was still in possession of her vigorous and clear
intellect, that she was seized with a more severe illness. Her growing
weakness was, in the year 1832, accompanied by an alarming attack of
brain fever, from the effects of which she never altogether recovered.
Mr. Myers states that the illness "kept her for many months in a state
of great prostration, and left her, when the physical symptoms abated,
with her intellect painfully impaired, and her bright nature permanently
overclouded."
In June, 1833, Mr. Crabb Robinson again writes in his diary: "Strolled
up to Rydal Mount, where I met with a cordial reception from my kind
friends; but Miss Wordsworth I did not see. I spent a few hours very
delightfully, and enjoyed the improved walk in Mr. Wordsworth's garden,
from which the views are admirable, and had most agreeable conversation,
with no other drawback than Miss Wordsworth's absence from the state of
her health."
Wordsworth himself felt very keenly the affliction of his sister.
Writing to his brother, the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth, on April 1, 1832, he
says: "Our dear sister makes no progress towards recovery of strength.
She is very feeble, never quits her room, and passes most of the day in,
or upon, the bed. She does not suffer much pain, and is very cheerful,
and nothing troubles her but public affairs and the sense of requiring
so much attention. Whatever may be the close of this illness, it will be
a profound consolation to you, my dear brother, and to us all, that it
is borne with perfect resignation; and that her thoughts are such as the
good and pious would wish. She reads much, both religious and
miscellaneous works." On June 25 of the same year, writing to Professor
Hamilton, after referring to Coleridge, he says: "He and my beloved
sister are the two beings to whom my intellect is most indebted, and
they are now proceeding, as it were, _pari passu_, along the path of
sickness, I will not say towards the grave; but I trust towards a
blessed immortality."
It does not, however, appear that all hope was abandoned of Miss
Wordsworth's recovery until the year 1836. In a note of his life
dictated by the poet, after referring to the deaths of his two young
children in 1812, he says: "We lived with no further sorrow till 1836,
when my sister became a confirmed invalid."
The outward life of Miss Wordsworth was now at an end. Her condition
became such that those who loved her so dearly could only hope to
relieve her pain and cheer her lonely hours. The buoyancy of spirit and
activity of limb which had so distinguished her young and mature life
ceased--had gradually given way to a decay of her physical energies,
which was accompanied at times, and especially during her later years by
a consequent natural depression of spirit, or loss of mental elasticity.
As years passed, what may be called the symptoms of mental decay became
intensified. I am, however, inclined to think that by some writers too
much prominence has been given to the deterioration of her intellect.
Principal Shairp says: "It is sad to think that when the world at last
knew him (Wordsworth) for what he was, the great original poet of the
century, she who had helped to make him so was almost past rejoicing in
it." Mr. Howitt, writing while Miss Wordsworth was still living, said:
"The mind of that beloved sister has for many years gone, as it were,
before her, and she lives on in a second infancy, gratefully cherished
in the poet's home."
The condition into which Miss Wordsworth had declined is not, however,
an unusual one when a severe and protracted illness lays hold upon one
advancing in years. The "nervous depression" or "nervous irritation"
which clouded her later years, apart from the prostration of the body,
was most manifest in the lapse of memory, which is frequently the case
with those who have not, indeed, suffered the affliction of Miss
Wordsworth. Her physical frame having succumbed to the overtaxing of her
energies, as an almost natural consequence her mind lost its youthful
buoyancy and brightness, and suffered in sympathy. An aged inhabitant of
the district, who knew her from youth to age, a little time ago informed
me that she could not be called low-spirited, but that she became "a
bit dull," adding that she always knew people, and was able to converse
with them.
Meanwhile, in the poet's home and circle, the inevitable flight of time
was bringing about other changes which tended to sadden the age of its
inhabitants. Intimate friends were departing. Coleridge, the friend of
his youth, who had, as before mentioned, left the district, and been
resident in London, died in 1834, to be followed to the grave only a
month later by the friend of both, the genial-hearted Charles Lamb. In
1835, also, to add to the sorrow caused by the confirmed affliction of
Miss Wordsworth, the beloved sister of Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Sarah
Hutchinson, who had for many years alternately resided with them and her
brother at Brinsop Court, Hereford, was added to the number of the loved
and lost.
The year 1841 was brightened by the marriage of Miss Dora Wordsworth,
the only surviving daughter of the poet. The event was not, however, to
him one of unalloyed happiness. This daughter, having, for now some
years, grown up to bright and happy womanhood, was his cherished
companion, and in her his heart seemed to be bound up. She occupied in
his later poems, to some extent, the same position that his sister did
in his earlier. Mr. Edward Quillinan, who became the poet's son in-law,
was a gentleman of much literary culture and attainment. He was the
author of several poems, reviews, and other works, and had the
reputation of being the most accomplished Portuguese scholar in this
country. He was an officer in the Dragoon Guards, and had married for
his first wife a daughter of Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. Long an admirer
of Wordsworth, he had become personally acquainted with him while his
regiment was stationed in Penrith in 1820. Quitting the service in 1821
he settled at the village of Rydal, chiefly for the sake of the poet's
society. Here he had in the following year the misfortune to lose his
wife. Notwithstanding the close friendship which existed between them,
Wordsworth did not like the idea of losing the companionship of his
daughter. Sir Henry Taylor, in reference to this, says: "His love for
his only daughter was passionately jealous, and the marriage which was
indispensable to her peace and happiness was intolerable to his
feelings. The emotions--I may say the throes and agonies of emotion--he
underwent were such as an old man could not have endured without
suffering in health, had he not been a very strong old man. But he was
like nobody else--old or young. He would pass the night, or most part of
it, in struggles and storms, to the moment of coming down to breakfast;
and then, if strangers were present, be as easy and delightful in
conversation as if nothing was the matter. But if his own health did not
suffer, his daughter's did, and this consequence of his resistance,
mainly aided, I believe, by the temperate but persistent pressure
exercised by Miss Fenwick, brought him at length, though far too
tardily, to consent to the marriage."
The marriage took place in Bath, in May, 1841; and afterwards Mr. and
Mrs. Wordsworth and Miss Fenwick made a short tour to Alfoxden and other
places so closely associated with the early life of Wordsworth and his
sister. Writing to Sir H. Taylor, Miss Fenwick says:--"We had two
perfect days for our visit to Wells, Alfoxden, &c. They were worthy of a
page or two in the poet's life. Forty-two years, perhaps, never passed
over any human head with more gain and less loss than over his. There he
was again, after that long period, in the full vigour of his intellect,
and with all the fervent feelings which have accompanied him through
life; his bodily strength little impaired, he, grey-headed, with an old
wife and not a young daughter. The thought of what his sister, who had
been his companion here, was then, and now is, seemed the only painful
feeling that moved in his mind. He was delighted to see again those
scenes (and they were beautiful in their kind) where he had been so
happy--where he had felt and thought so much. He pointed out the spots
where he had written so many of his early poems, and told us how they
had been suggested."
It was on the death of Southey, in 1843, that Wordsworth, then in his
seventy-fourth year, was offered, and, after some hesitation, on account
of his age, accepted the appointment of Poet Laureate--an office which
has not been filled by a worthier man or greater poet.
But other trials were in store for his advancing years. The health of
his daughter had for some years been delicate, and continued to be so
after her marriage. In 1845 Mr. and Mrs. Quillinan sought the more
genial clime of Spain and Portugal, where they remained until the summer
of the following year. Of this tour Mrs. Quillinan published a journal,
of which it has been said that it showed she "inherited no trivial
measure of her aunt's tastes and talents." It was hoped that by this
means her health had been restored; but the hope proved to be
short-lived. She gradually faded, and, to the great grief of all who
knew her, died in 1847. The effect on the poet was most saddening. Sir
Henry Taylor, referring to his cultivation of the muse in later years,
says: "At his daughter's death, a silence, _as_ of death, fell upon him;
and though during the interval between her death and his own his genius
was not at all times incapable of its old animation, I believe it never
broke again into song."
To return to Miss Wordsworth. Mr. Crabb Robinson, in a reminiscence of
the year 1835, writes: "Already her health had broken down. In her youth
and middle age she had stood in somewhat the same relation to her
brother William as poor Mary Lamb to her brother Charles. In her long
illness she was fond of repeating the favourite small poems of her
brother, as well as a few of her own. And this she did in so sweet a
tone as to be quite pathetic. The temporary obscurations of a noble mind
can never obliterate the recollections of its inherent and essential
worth."
In December, 1843, Mr. Quillinan, writing to Mrs. Clarkson, refers to
the pleasure with which they at Rydal had read Miss Martineau's "Life in
a Sick Room," and adds: "When I said all the Rydalites, I should have
excepted poor, dear Miss Wordsworth, who could not bear sustained
attention to any book, but who would be quite capable of appreciating a
little at a time." In a still later letter--one from Mr. Robinson to
Miss Fenwick, in 1849--referring to a visit paid to his friends at
Rydal, he says: "Poor Miss Wordsworth I found sunk still further in
insensibility. By the bye, Mrs. Wordsworth says that almost the only
enjoyment Wordsworth seems to feel is in his attendance on her, and that
her death would be to him a sad calamity." Lady Richardson has given the
following pathetic reminiscence: "There is," she says, "always something
very touching in his way of speaking of his sister. The tones of his
voice become very gentle and solemn, and he ceases to have that flow of
expression, which is so remarkable in him in all other subjects. It is
as if the sadness connected with her present condition was too much for
him to dwell upon in connection with the past, although habit and the
omnipotence of circumstances have made its daily presence less
oppressive to his spirits. He said that his sister spoke constantly of
their early days, but more of the years they spent together in other
parts of England than those at Grasmere."
To Miss Wordsworth the "sorrow's crown of sorrow" came with the death in
April, 1850, of the brother for whom she had lived and for whom she had
done so much. Having attained his eightieth year, he caught a cold,
which resulted in a bronchial attack. After lying for a few weeks in a
state of exhaustion, the great soul passed to its everlasting rest, to
swell the song of the eternal world.
Although cared for and dearly beloved by the survivors, the death of her
brother seemed to snap the strong tie by which she was bound to life. In
consequence of being herself confined to her room, she was not able to
witness the progress and end of her brother's illness. To the very last
they had been so completely devoted to each other that when his death
was communicated to her she was at first unable to realise it. When the
truth at length dawned upon her, she gave utterance to the pathetic
exclamation, that there was nothing left worth living for.
Miss Wordsworth, however, survived her brother by nearly five years. It
is a satisfaction to know that even her latest years were not without
gleams of brightness. Although, compared with her early mental vigour,
there was visible a melancholy wreck of mind, it was chiefly the result
of an uncertain and vanishing memory. She had, indeed, to the very last
perfectly lucid intervals during which she was remarkably clear and
quite herself. As a not uncommon result of loss of memory in aged
people, she forgot near events, and was what might be termed somewhat
childish. She could remember quite well what took place in her girlhood,
while if asked what she had been doing or talking about an hour
previously she would have no recollection of it.
During her latest years Miss Wordsworth was unable to read much, but
would frequently amuse herself by reciting poetry and other scraps,
which, learnt in previous years, she remembered wonderfully well. A
casual observer, who might see the placid old lady, of fourscore years,
wheeled on the terrace at Rydal Mount, her unwrinkled though somewhat
pensive face framed by a full-bordered cap, would have no suggestion of
the often vacant mind.
Although sometimes considerably depressed in spirits, her tedious
affliction was, on the whole, borne with exemplary Christian fortitude.
It has been said that "her loving-kindness in health had known no
bounds, and the sympathy she had ever felt for the sorrows of others was
now rivalled by the patience with which she bore her own."
When the end at length came it was calm and tolerably painless. Taking
cold early in the year 1855, her condition was aggravated by an attack
of bronchitis, and her spirit left the worn-out frame on the 25th of
January, in her eighty-third year.
Her remains were deposited in the peaceful churchyard of Grasmere, by
the murmuring waters of a mountain stream, the same sacred spot of earth
which contained those of her beloved brother, overshadowed by the same
yew trees.
It was from her own choice--a choice decided and happy--that Miss
Wordsworth was never married. De Quincey (who seems, by the way, to have
had a pretty universal knowledge) informs us that she had several offers
of marriage, and amongst them, to his knowledge, one from Hazlitt, all
of which she decisively rejected. Although he speaks so confidently, it
is probable that, with regard to Hazlitt, he was mistaken. With the
exception of a visit to Nether Stowey, and a short stay in the Lake
district some few years later, it does not appear that Hazlitt was
brought into contact with the Wordsworths, or that the relations between
them were at all familiar; and Hazlitt's grandson and biographer does
not attach much importance to the statement. Miss Wordsworth had a far
higher vocation. Her sacrifice, if it can be so called, to her brother
was complete; but her lot was not, therefore, less happy. Doubtless the
duties of marriage and maternity, had the poet's prophecy concerning her
been fulfilled, would have filled her life, in its maturity and decline,
with cares and interests which would have contributed to the keeping of
her mind in a condition of more continuous mental vigour and equipoise.
But the one great object of her life had been accomplished. She had
lived to know all slander and rancour, the effect of all spiteful
reviews, lived down; and--if not able fully to appreciate and rejoice in
the fact--to see her brother, whom she had helped so much to perfect,
universally acknowledged as a master of English song, occupying a
foremost niche in the Temple of Fame--the greatest poet since Milton.
And, although her old age was somewhat overclouded, it cannot be
considered altogether sad; and it is not with thoughts of sadness that
our reflections on such a beneficent career as hers should be closed.
If the latter portion of her life was overshadowed with gloom and
sickness; if the brightness of the morning and the serenity of noonday
too early gave place to a long twilight upon which the shadows fell
heavily, her bright and lucid intervals give abundant hope that gleams
of gladness revisited the mind which, for so long, had been a "mansion
for all lovely forms" treasured and garnered in her early years.
It is more befitting that we should turn away our thoughts from the
intervening period of age and decay; and that Dorothy Wordsworth should
live in our minds as she was in her eager-spirited and ardent youth,
when in company with her beloved companion, she bounded over the
familiar hills and roamed by the mountain streams, or by the household
fire scanned the classic page--a youth of beauty, and buoyancy, and joy,
because so full of love and goodness, of generous sympathy and unselfish
devotion--a youth which she has since renewed, unclouded by any shade,
in the same old society, and with the familiar love re-linked--_in
Paradiso_.